Count the Days
by lynne-monstr
Summary: "Children are never supposed to know the extent of the sacrifices their parents make for them and apparently it's no different for siblings." Prussia character study. Deanon from the kink meme.


Every day begins the same.

You snap awake, the transition from sleep to consciousness almost immediate. You've been a soldier far too long to wake in any other way.

For that first blissful moment you fully expect to feel the steady thrum of land and people just under your skin– it's a birthright all nations share and is as integral to being a nation as oxygen is for humans. Of course, you've been wiped from the European map in its entirety, not even a city or town left to bear your name for posterity's sake. The re-realization hits like a punch to the gut and you fight not to gasp for air. You know you're not really dying, but it hurts all the same.

It has been 65 years, 2 months, and 14 days since your _de jure_ dissolution. At first glance this seems like entirely too long for you not to have internalized this basic fact of your nonexistence. But for someone whose life is measured not in years but in centuries, it's been merely an eye blink. You wonder how long it will take before your morning ritual starts with acceptance instead of expectation. And if, on that day, you will finally cease to exist (you vacillate between desperately longing and fearing that day).

.

Buried deep in your hard drive, mislabeled under a maze of dummy directories and compressed to conceal its size, is a top secret folder that no one knows about. It's encrypted with the best algorithms on the market, because when you mean to keep a secret you damn well do, and do it well.

The secret is a highly detailed, meticulously researched plan that, executed correctly (as you do all your plans) will place the entire German government in your greedy hands. The timeline from initiation to completion is one week.

You know the names of every high ranking official in Germany, and their passwords and illicit lovers' names. It would be an amateur blunder to stop at officials; you also know their secretaries – their hopes and dreams, career aspirations, the things they hate about their bosses. Your brother thinks you never come into the office but you're there all the time, unrecognized and unnoticed, solving problems before they start and collecting endless amounts of data.

You refer to the scheme in your head only as The Plan. There is never any intention of carrying it out, but it's comforting to know you could. It soothes something deep inside you, an itch that, while not unreachable, just can't seem to be found no matter how diligently you go after it. More and more you find yourself daydreaming of it on those blackest of days, when life seems so utterly pointless and you wonder why you're still alive at all, what it will take to finally stop this farce your existence has become.

.

Your feelings for West are a chaotic mess of affection, pride, fierce protectiveness, and deep bitterness. Unlike the other nations (especially a certain glasses-wearing, arrogant, aristocratic sissy who shall remain nameless), you've never married. You know there are many different types of love but, for the life of you, can't get a solid grasp on any of them. Sometimes you think the clusterfuck of emotions you have for West is the closest to love you're capable of.

You see West as he's on his way out the door, dressed immaculately in his favorite suit, portfolio tucked neatly under one arm. Suddenly you want to tell him all this, tell him that you gave up your kingdom and your land and your people and your fucking dignity, but it's okay because you'd do it all again. Because West is important; not to the world (fuck the world), but to you.

You open your mouth to express everything you've been meaning to say and never have, even if all you can muster is _I'm proud of you._ But what comes out is, "You Eurozone losers could use some more awesome in your life. Too bad my schedule's booked!"

Inside you cringe, while West just looks at you like some naughty child who keeps misbehaving and you want to scream in frustration. You say nothing though, just grin wider and laugh louder because that's all anyone expects these days.

.

You never so much as mention it, but you would give anything – almost anything – for another day with Fritz. Even if you didn't say one word to each other, it would be okay; just to bask in his presence again would be enough. You'll never tell anyone, but you know if you were to ever miraculously see your king again, you'd bawl like a child. This, like the encrypted files on the computer, is a closely guarded secret.

.

A fit of mischievousness overtakes you one Sunday as you lounge on the couch, the television blaring mindless words, effortlessly ignored. Your so very serious little brother has just emerged from the study where he's been holed up all day.

"What would you do if I took control of the government?" you ask idly.

Behind those tiny reading specs he's forgotten to take off, West gives you an unreadable look and laughs uncomfortably, shuffling the mounds of papers he's carrying from one arm to the other and back again. "Is this for one of your computer games. Are you going on a raid?"

He stumbles over the word _raid_ and you are unsure whether you're being mocked or if West is genuinely trying to engage you by attempting some of the gaming terminology that you've bandied about before. The noise from the television is suddenly pissing you off and you stab the power button of the remote control still in your hand. The sound is sucked from the room, leaving only the two of you.

"Really though." You pursue the point because in this exact moment you are deadly serious. "How far would you fight me for it?" In a show of feigned casualness, you toss the remote control to the other end of the couch where it lands with a soft thump before burrowing itself behind a pillow. Later on, you know, West will be unable to find it and a screaming match will ensue. You don't care.

West rolls his eyes. "Stop talking nonsense."

He's not even pretending to take you seriously and that's what stings most of all. You viciously clamp down on a violent tremble, fighting the urge to jump to your feet and punch that self-righteous, condescending expression right off his stupid, spectacled face. But then West would know how much you are not joking right now and those features would swiftly morph into pity.

Pity is the one emotion which you absolutely cannot tolerate.

With a monumental effort of will that no one seems to fucking remember you're capable of, you force yourself to keep your body loose and relaxed and lazily stand up, hands swinging gently by your sides while you saunter off like you don't have a care in the world. It used to be when you talked of conquest people quickly excused themselves and started double checking the state of their army. Now you're not even taken seriously in your own home.

.

Yeah, you play a lot of computer games in the basement, but that's not all you do. Pushups, sit-ups, pull-ups, squats, lunges, shadowboxing, katas, tai chi, the list goes on and you don't have time to name them all. Your studies of martial arts over the years are extensive. It's all part of your daily routine at some point.

Not, like the humans, to keep fit but because you love warfare (have always loved it) with all your black heart and these activities are the closest you can come in these boring modern times. Often, you find yourself wishing you'd died on the battlefield after the dismissal of your cabinet; surely that's better than whatever-the-hell type of life you're living now. You try not to think about it and push your body to the limit every day alone in your room.

(War and West, the only two things you really care about. It has a nice ring to it, you think.)

.

In your darker moments, you admit that you hate humans. They are dull and insignificant and think shallow little insignificant things that have no connection to the big picture. Other times, you're willing to admit that your harsh judgments are more than a little unfair. It's not really their fault. Their lifespans are so limited, no wonder their perception is too.

Once in a while a truly exceptional human comes along who exhibits more wisdom and insight than you or any of your fellow nations possess. (Otto von Bismarck was one of those.)

You hate them the most.

They have none of the tediousness of regular humans, but they still die like them. They die and you're left alone with only a hole in your chest where a friend and confidant used to be.

.

West approaches you in your room (a seldom enough occurrence to catch your attention), hovering in the doorway with a rare indecisive look on his face. "I was distracted," he says.

You look up at him from where you are curled up in bed with _The Art of War_ (a frequent and favorite re-read), back propped up against the headboard. "What is it now, kid."

Normally West hates being reminded of his relative youth and as such, you take great delight in doing so. But he doesn't even flinch at the 'kid' remark. Means he's thinking deep thoughts. This should be interesting. You put the book aside and pat the space on the bed across from you as an invitation to sit. He does.

West's eyes flick to the familiar volume and you catch a warm, faintly amused smile before it's buried again under discomfort. "The other day. When you asked about the government. I thought you were joking. But you weren't, were you?"

"What does it matter." There's no heat in the words, more of a grim resignation.

West looks at you with piercing eyes, perched near the foot of the bed. "I have no doubt you could do it. Sometimes I wonder why you haven't already."

"Don't you know."

"No."

"Then you're an idiot." You have never said _I love you_ and don't think you ever will.

For a minute West says nothing at all, his face a neutral blank that you know means he's deep in thought. Finally, his expression settles into one of perfect understanding, as if he's actually heard the unspoken sentiment behind your words. He's always been too clever for his own good.

He steels himself, as if he's about to say something he'll soon regret. "I wouldn't stop you."

You raise your chin defiantly and laugh. It's a sharp thing. "You'd try."

West shakes his head, like he's trying to make some kind of point that you're simply not getting. "No, I wouldn't. Try, that is. I _couldn't_. I will not go to war against you."

There are times when 1932 hangs over both your heads like a specter. You have long since forgiven West for the actions of his then leaders. You doubt West has allowed himself the same luxury. Still, guilt is a far cry from inaction.

"Bullshit, West." You've never been afraid to call anyone out on their crap, and this is no exception. "I'm sure you've got a whole contingency plan drawn up just for me." In fact, you're counting on it, and The Plan has already taken any such countermeasures into consideration.

"I don't need one and you know it. You can stop pretending, Gilbert. I know what you did after Berlin fell."

At that, you go cold and still. But West doesn't stop talking.

"You've always been stubborn, but I know you deliberately goaded the allies so you would take the ultimate blame instead of me."

It must have been France, you think. He and West get along so well these days. You shrug, as if having West know all this doesn't bother you in the slightest. You're not quite sure why, but it does. It really does. Children are never supposed to know the extent of the sacrifices their parents make for them and apparently it's no different for siblings. You affect an air of indifference you don't feel. "So what if I did."

The words spill forth in a torrent, as if West can't get them out fast enough. He's obviously not buying the fake nonchalance. "You gave up everything for me. I would never have let you, had I known." He pauses to catch his breath, visibly collecting himself and staring you unflinchingly in the eye. "If you're so miserable that you'd take back Germany by force, I want you to have it. I'd give it to you."

You snort, loud and sudden. Not for a moment do you believe West would go through with it, nor do you want him to, but you appreciate the words nonetheless. "After everything I went through for your sorry ass, do you think I'd take it away. Fucking never."

The bed shifts as West stands. But he doesn't leave; instead, he walks to the head of the bed where you're still propped up against the headboard and nudges you aside so he can settle into the now unoccupied space next to you. Neither of you speak, content to sit in silence and enjoy the company.

Nothing's changed, of course. But for the moment you're happy and that's enough.

* * *

_Historical Notes:_

_-The Allied Control Council officially dissolved Prussia on Feb 25 1947_

_-1932: Preußenschlag_


End file.
